Mrs. Persis Flagg stood in her front doorway taking leave of Miss
Cynthia Pickett, who had been making a long call. They were not intimate
friends. Miss Pickett always came formally to the front door and rang
when she paid her visits, but, the week before, they had met at the
county conference, and happened to be sent to the same house for
entertainment, and so had deepened and renewed the pleasures of
acquaintance.
It was an afternoon in early June; the syringa-bushes were tall and
green on each side of the stone doorsteps, and were covered with their
lovely white and golden flowers. Miss Pickett broke off the nearest
twig, and held it before her prim face as she talked. She had a pretty
childlike smile that came and went suddenly, but her face was not one
that bore the marks of many pleasures. Mrs. Flagg was a tall, commanding
sort of person, with an air of satisfaction and authority.
“Oh, yes, gather all you want,” she said stiffly, as Miss Pickett took
the syringa without having asked beforehand; but she had an amiable
expression, and just now her large countenance was lighted up by
pleasant anticipation.
“We can tell early what sort of a day it’s goin’ to be,” she said
eagerly. “There ain’t a cloud in the sky now. I’ll stop for you as I
come along, or if there should be anything unforeseen to detain me, I’ll
send you word. I don’t expect you’d want to go if it wa’n’t so that I
could?”
“Oh my sakes, no!” answered Miss Pickett discreetly, with a timid flush.
“You feel certain that Mis’ Timms won’t be put out? I shouldn’t feel
free to go unless I went ’long o’ you.”
“Why, nothin’ could be plainer than her words,” said Mrs. Flagg in a
tone of reproval. “You saw how she urged me, an’ had over all that talk
about how we used to see each other often when we both lived to
Longport, and told how she’d been thinkin’ of writin’, and askin’ if it
wa’n’t so I should be able to come over and stop three or four days as
soon as settled weather come, because she couldn’t make no fire in her
best chamber on account of the chimbley smokin’ if the wind wa’n’t just
right. You see how she felt toward me, kissin’ of me comin’ and goin’?
Why, she even asked me who I employed to do over my bonnet, Miss
Pickett, just as interested as if she was a sister; an’ she remarked she
should look for us any pleasant day after we all got home, an’ were
settled after the conference.”
Miss Pickett smiled, but did not speak, as if she expected more
arguments still.
“An’ she seemed just about as much gratified to meet with you again. She
seemed to desire to meet you again very particular,” continued Mrs.
Flagg. “She really urged us to come together an’ have a real good day
talkin’ over old times—there, don’t le’ ’s go all over it again! I’ve
always heard she’d made that old house of her aunt Bascoms’ where she
lives look real handsome. I once heard her best parlor carpet described
as being an elegant carpet, different from any there was round here.
Why, nobody couldn’t be more cordial, Miss Pickett; you ain’t goin’ to
give out just at the last?”
“Oh, no!” answered the visitor hastily; “no, ’m! I want to go full as
much as you do, Mis’ Flagg, but you see I never was so well acquainted
with Mis’ Cap’n Timms, an’ I always seem to dread putting myself
for’ard. She certain was very urgent, an’ she said plain enough to come
any day next week, an’ here ’tis Wednesday, though of course she
wouldn’t look for us either Monday or Tuesday. ’Twill be a real pleasant
occasion, an’ now we’ve been to the conference it don’t seem near so
much effort to start.”
“Why, I don’t think nothin’ of it,” said Mrs. Flagg proudly. “We shall
have a grand good time, goin’ together an’ all, I feel sure.”
Miss Pickett still played with her syringa flower, tapping her thin
cheek, and twirling the stem with her fingers. She looked as if she were
going to say something more, but after a moment’s hesitation she turned
away.
“Good-afternoon, Mis’ Flagg,” she said formally, looking up with a quick
little smile; “I enjoyed my call; I hope I ain’t kep’ you too late; I
don’t know but what it’s ’most tea-time. Well, I shall look for you in
the mornin’.”
“Good-afternoon, Miss Pickett; I’m glad I was in when you came. Call
again, won’t you?” said Mrs. Flagg. “Yes; you may expect me in good
season,” and so they parted. Miss Pickett went out at the neat clicking
gate in the white fence, and Mrs. Flagg a moment later looked out of her
sitting-room window to see if the gate were latched, and felt the least
bit disappointed to find that it was. She sometimes went out after the
departure of a guest, and fastened the gate herself with a loud,
rebuking sound. Both of these Woodville women lived alone, and were very
precise in their way of doing things.